Unconsciously disobeying the instruction to keep his mind quite passive, Doctor Riche could not help studying the face of the young girl before him, and noticing, as the seconds went by, the gradual change that was beginning to come over her. From a half careless insouciance when she first placed the ring on the table in front of her and began to look into its depths, her whole manner and bearing seemed now to have changed to one of most absorbing interest, which gradually altered, until her face bore traces of great mental anguish. So strong was the appearance of severe distress that the whole reserve of his well-known professional tenderness of heart surged to the doctor's brain, and was on the point of giving itself vent in speech, when a soft, almost entranced voice apparently some distance off was heard, as in a whisper:—
"Mon Dieu, it is terrible. Listen. It is a house in one of the suburbs of Paris. There is a large room. It opens into a smaller chamber by a large door. The door is locked. I see eight people sitting down in a half circle. They hold each other's hands. There are, let me see, one, two, three, four, five men, and three ladies. One of the ladies is young and very pretty, with dark wavy hair, and wonderfully brilliant eyes. The other is of middle age, and is wearing a wedding ring. I see one of the men, he looks to be about thirty-five years old, he is separated from the others. He has long black hair and a pointed moustache. His face is very white, and his eyes are slowly closing. They are putting him to sleep. He sleeps, oh, mon Dieu, how still he is, he looks like the dead. Attendez, attendez, encore une minute. It is not so clear now to see him. There is a vapeur, like a big white cloud slowly over-wrapping him. Now it is getting smaller—what you say, 'condensing'—and is taking a human form, but it is much more handsome than the sleeper. Now the form is moving its lips as if it were speaking, now it is fading away from the room, and the company seems to be afraid, they are all very quiet. There is one of the men—he looks like a doctor—he seems very anxious, he is uneasy, he is bien faché as he looks at the sleeper. He regards closely, he touches him, he takes his wrist and feels the pulse. He calls out, he cries, 'My God! He is dead!' Everyone rushes up to him and—ah, the picture fades."
"Mon Dieu," cried out Riche, "Try again, mademoiselle, can you see anything else?"
"Wait. Yes. The picture is forming itself again. Ah, but it is not the same room. I see an open drawer in a writing table, there is a large envelope in the drawer. There are five large seals, and there is something written on the envelope. It is fading—I cannot make it out. There is a name, Henri—Henri D—No, I cannot see more. It has faded. I see nothing."
Pale as marble, and with a look of strained enquiry in her eyes, the young girl leaned back in her chair and appeared quite oblivious to all around her. Then slowly closing her eyes, she sighed deeply, and turning to her mother said:—
"Oh, but it is too terrible, it is too much."
Thinking that she was about to collapse in a fainting fit, the doctor hastened to procure assistance.
Quietly making his way through the open door, so as not to attract too much attention to his companions, he called two of the garçons; and telling one to carry some eau-de-vie to the ladies, he gave instructions for the other to have a fiacre ready.
When he returned to the little table in the recess, the two ladies were nowhere to be seen. He enquired of the waiters, but they could give him no information as to where they had gone. The bill had been paid, but beyond that they knew nothing. Dr. Riche waited for some minutes, and at length prepared to leave the café.
"Diable, mille diables!" he exclaimed. "If it was genuine then it was extraordinary, but if it was not genuine, it was a clever and a very interesting imposture. But the imposture sans motif? That would not be the 'sens commun.' The whole thing is very mysterious. I would give anything to find out where they live, but it is quite useless to hunt for them now. Just my cursed luck again." Picking up his gloves and cane in an abstracted and almost dazed manner, the worthy doctor, after glancing up and down the street, moved quietly away and joined the throng of promenaders.